Mystery of the Samurai Sword (9 page)

“It's one possibility we wanted to look into,” said Frank. “We'd also like to know a little more about this samurai sword that was stolen in New York. Mr. Oyama told me on the phone that the sword may have been Mr. Satoya's main reason for coming to America.”

Both aides nodded seriously as though they had discussed the matter between them, following Frank's phone call.

“Our employer wore the sword as a young officer during World War II,” Oyama related, “but he lost it when he was taken prisoner by your soldiers, sometime before Japan surrendered. Apparently the sword was ‘liberated,' as the saying goes, by a GI. At any rate, it disappeared. Perhaps you know how much a Japanese samurai values his blade?”

“We've been told,” said Frank.

“This one was especially treasured because it had belonged to the Satoya family for many generations,” Mr. Kawanishi added. “For that reason, our employer has had agents looking for it all over the world, feeling that one day whoever took it might decide to sell it for money.”

“And events proved him right,” said Mr. Oyama. “He was delighted when the sword turned up for sale at the Palmer-Glade Galleries. He was able to identify it from their sale catalog. But, alas, I fear the news of its theft may come as a very unpleasant blow to him—that is, assuming Mr. Satoya himself is still alive and safe.”

“You think he disappeared of his own accord?” Joe asked shrewdly.

Once again, the Hardys saw a troubled glance pass between the two aides.

“I must confess we do think so,” Mr. Kawanishi admitted, “even though we are at a loss to explain how or why it happened.”

“If you're right, his chauffeur must have been in on it,” Frank pointed out.

Both aides agreed. “But there is no hope of learning anything from him,” said Oyama.

“Why not, sir?”

“Because he is fanatically loyal to his master. You see, he has a small daughter, who was born with a heart defect. Mr. Satoya had her flown to a hospital in Texas and paid for an expensive operation that saved her life. Now that fellow would die before he would betray anything which his master wished to keep secret.”

On a sudden impulse, Frank decided to phone Warlord from the hotel lobby. As he had hoped, the dancer accepted his call.

“We've found out about the fight you had with a Satoya worker, and how you were forced to leave Japan,” Frank said. “We'd like to hear your side of it, just out of fairness.”

There was a brief silence. Then Warlord said, “Okay, you win. Come on over to the college and I'll tell you the whole story.”

“We'll be right over,” Frank promised and hung up.

Joe was excited when he heard the news. “Maybe something'll break now!”

“Maybe. But we'd better not get our hopes too high. This may turn into another blind alley.”

The boys sped to Bayshore College. After parking their car in the student lot, they found Yvor Killian and his troupe practicing their numbers in the gymnasium again.

The dancer's manner was somewhat embarrassed as he greeted the Hardys.

“Come over and sit down, please, where we can talk in private,” he said, gesturing toward some folding chairs in one corner of the gym.

When they were all seated, Killian began, “About three years ago, before I formed my present troupe, I studied the martial arts in Japan.”

“How come?” Joe asked.

“Because I thought they might add an important touch to the kind of dance spectacle I was interested in creating. I enjoyed learning the Japanese fighting skills and the way they were taught, partly because it was all so different from our American self-defense sports like boxing, for example. But there was one student, named Noguchi, with whom I never got along. He hated me—maybe because his father had been killed fighting the Americans during the war.”

Killian said the bad feelings between them erupted one day during a practice match. Noguchi had refused to “pull” his blows. This enraged Killian. They were soon fighting in deadly earnest, and before their instructor could stop them, Killian hit his opponent with a karate chop, seriously injuring him.

The dancer's head drooped for a moment and his face took on a bleak expression as he recalled the unpleasant situation.

“I instantly regretted it,” he went on, “and I tried to make amends by visiting Noguchi at the hospital and apologizing. But by then the damage was done. Noguchi worked for the Satoya Corporation, and their company lawyers pressed charges against me with the police. As a result, I was asked to leave the country.”

“Tough break,” Frank sympathized.

Warlord shrugged. “Just one of those things, I guess. Noguchi recovered, but I still feel guilty about what happened, so I've tried to forget the whole business. If the news ever came out, it probably wouldn't do my career any good, either.”

“Don't worry, it's not going to leak out through us,” said Joe.

“No, I'm sure of that—now. But at the time I got your call and heard what you wanted to see me about, I guess I lost my head. I thought you were going to drag up that old scandal and try to pin something on me. Sorry about that.”

“Forget it,” Frank said. “But we do have another question...”

“Shoot.”

“You told us you thought Satoya intended to bid on that sword at the Palmer-Glade Auction Galleries, and it turns out you were right. How did you know?”

“That sword's been stolen, by the way,” Joe added.

Warlord nodded. “So I've heard. Well, I felt Satoya would be interested in it, because when I looked at the blade while it was on display, I noticed the name
Satoya
inscribed on it. You see, while I was in Japan, I learned to read Japanese characters. And when you mentioned that dealer, Gorky, trying to sell him a samurai sword, it just seemed likely he'd be more interested in buying one that belonged to his own family.” The dancer rose from his chair and began to pace the floor. His manner seemed vaguely uncomfortable. “There's something else I'd better tell you,” he said after a few moments.

“We're listening,” Frank said.

“Last night I had an anonymous phone call.”

“What about?” Joe asked.

“That samurai sword. Apparently the person who called was the thief who stole it from the auction gallery—or maybe a fence. He offered to sell me the sword—for ten thousand dollars.”

Warlord's startling news caught the Hardys by surprise. They stared at him, wide-eyed.

“How did you handle it?” Frank asked.

Warlord ran his fingers nervously through his mane of long black hair. “To tell the truth I didn't know what to say. He only gave me a few moments to make up my mind, and I was afraid if I said no, that would be the last I'd hear from him. So I said I'd accept, and he named a time and place to complete the deal.”

“You bring the money, and he'd hand over the sword?”

“Right”

“When and where is this supposed to take place?”

“Midnight tonight at Seaview Park.”

“Did you intend to go through with it?” Joe put in.

The dancer shrugged helplessly. “I don't know what I intended. The whole thing's been on my mind ever since I got the call. Guess that's why I was glad to hear from you fellows again—so you could advise me.”

“If you buy stolen goods, that makes you as guilty as the thief,” Frank pointed out.

“I realize that. But I wasn't planning on just keeping the sword and saying nothing. It wouldn't be any use to me, anyhow, if I had to keep it hidden. I thought if I returned it to the auction gallery, they might be willing to sell it to me for a bargain price—I mean, to make up for the ransom money I'd already paid out.”

“You might find a lot of people would suspect you were the guy who swiped it in the first place,” Joe remarked dryly.

From the dismayed look on Warlord's face, the boys could see that this possibility hadn't even occurred to him. “So what choice do I have at this point?” Killian asked the Hardys.

“Use the payoff meeting as a chance to catch the thieves,” Frank shot back.

“They warned me I'd regret it if I tipped off the police—and not just myself, my whole dance troupe!”

“You agreed not to tell the police?”

“The caller made me swear it before he named the time and place for the exchange.”

“Leave it to us,” said Joe after a questioning glance at his brother, who responded with a nod. “That way you'll be keeping your word, and Frank and I will try to set up a trap on our own.”

Warlord's expression showed relief at getting out of his dilemma, and he readily agreed to the Hardys' proposal.

“One more thing,” said Frank. “How would the thief or thieves have known
you
might be interested in buying that stolen sword?”

“The gallery's public relations man had a publicity photo taken of me examining the sword,” Killian replied. “It turned up in a couple of newspapers, and the caption under the picture said I planned to bid on the sword when it was auctioned.”

“That would explain it, all right,” Frank agreed.

“Besides,” Warlord added, “everyone who's seen my show knows that I use swords and knives in my dance act—and each one's an authentic example of its kind.”

As the Hardys returned to their car in the parking lot, Frank murmured, “Oh, oh! Something must be up!”

A red light was flashing on their instrument panel. Frank switched on the specially licensed transceiver mounted under their dashboard.

“11-1 here,” he said into the hand mike.

“G calling!”

Something in the tone of the woman's voice as it came over the speaker struck a note of alarm in the hearts of both Hardy boys.

“What's wrong, Aunt Gertrude?” Frank asked.

“Sam Radley's been hurt!” she reported. “I just had a call from Shoreham. He was found unconscious in the street there—with a head wound!”

“Oh, that's terrible news!” Frank exclaimed with an anxious glance at Joe. “Where is Sam now?”

“They've taken him to Shoreham Hospital,” Miss Hardy replied. “The police recognized him as your father's top aide, so they called here. But so far I haven't been able to reach Fenton and give him the bad news. That's why I called you boys.”

“Good! I'm glad you let us know, Aunty. Joe and I'll drive to the hospital right now and see how Sam is. Over and out!”

Frank switched off the set and hung up the mike. Then he gunned the engine and maneuvered smoothly and swiftly out of the parking lot. Soon they were pressing the speed limit over the Shore Road, en route to the nearby town of Shoreham.

“Do you suppose this is connected to the Satoya case?” Joe asked his brother.

“I don't know. I'm not sure what kind of assignment Dad had him working on.”

At the hospital they were directed to the emergency room. Sam Radley had already regained consciousness. The boys found him sitting up on the examining table while a doctor bandaged his head.

“Wow! What a relief!” Frank exclaimed. “We weren't sure what had happened, or how seriously you were hurt!”

Joe added, “What did happen, Sam?”

“Got conked.” The detective grinned wryly. “Fortunately I seem to have a hard head.”

Frank gave the medic a questioning glance. “How is he, Doctor?”

“Nothing too serious, apparently. Just a bruise and a slight scalp laceration. Bit swollen now, but that'll be down by tomorrow morning. However, I want him to stay here at the hospital overnight, to make sure he's suffered no concussion.”

The doctor allowed the Hardys to talk to Sam Radley for a few minutes before he was taken to one of the hospital wards.

“Any idea who hit you, Sam?” Frank inquired.

“No name, if that's what you mean—but I've got a general idea.”

Although Radley was the only investigator who worked regularly for Fenton Hardy, there were other operatives whom the sleuth employed from time to time as the need arose. Sam told the boys that their father had asked all his associates to keep their eyes open for any possible
Yakuza,
or Japanese gangsters, in the area.

“I spotted a guy here in Shoreham with all the ear-marks,” the private detective went on. “Tattooed arms, flashy clothes, amputated finger joints, the works. So I started tailing him.”

“Where'd he go?” Joe asked eagerly.

“To a cafe down on the waterfront. And he met a man there, an American, from the looks of him, anyhow.” Sam paused for a moment, his brow creasing in a thoughtful frown.

“Did you recognize him?” Frank prompted.

“I don't know. And that bothers me a bit.” Sam hesitated, still frowning. “He looked familiar, but I can't place him. Anyhow, the two of them gabbed for a while, then the
Yakuza
got up and left. And I followed him—which turned out to be a mistake.”

“How do you mean?”

“I figure he may have suspected he was being shadowed, so he told the American to keep watch. Or maybe the American saw me follow him out of the cafe, and took action on his own hook, or tipped off one of the
Yakuza's
pals. Whichever it was, the Japanese led me down a narrow street near the wharves. Next thing I knew someone jumped me from behind!”

“Did you get a look at the person who attacked you?” put in Joe.